Goodbye, Stoneybrook
by randomishness
Summary: A glimpse into the grown-up lives of the Baby-Sitters Club. Updated!! Finally!! ^_^
1. Abby

Goodbye, Stoneybrook  
  
All original characters (Dawn, Stacey, Abby, Kristy, Mallory, Mary Anne, Jessi, and Claudia) are property of Ann M. Martin and Scholastic.  
  
Chapter One  
  
Abigail Stevenson stood on her tiptoes, stretching herself to the fullest extent while she rummaged around the top shelf in her hall closet. "It's got to be around here somewhere," she mumbled around the roll of fishing line that stuck sideways out of her mouth. Sighing in defeat, she removed the fishing line, sighed, and ran a hand through her thick mane of chocolate curls.  
  
"Momma, Momma, I want to make necklaces!" whined Jill, whom had fastened herself to her mother's blue denim-clad leg.  
Abby handed her daughter the fishing line and said, "I know, I know, dear. . ." Her words dissolved into silence as she began poking around for the plastic box of kaleidoscopic beads that Jill had received ages ago for her birthday, and immediately forgotten. Of course, leave it up to a seven-year-old to remember a toy that was hidden away for what was meant to be all eternity.  
  
After a few moments, Abby rocked back on her heels again. "I'm sorry, Jill, but I can't find the beads," she looked down at her daughter.  
  
Before Jill could shriek in protest, a heavy glass bottle teetered on the edge of the top hall shelf. Falling with high velocity and finishing with a crescendo of diamond shards of glass and a salt and pepper shower, the jar sent a spew of dust up in its midst. Abby quickly covered her mouth and pulled Jill away from the broken glass and dust, for Jill had inherited the vicious allergies that her mother had.  
  
Jill began wailing in her stage of surprise, and Abby comforted her with juice, cookies, and 'The Little Mermaid' playing in the living room. Returning to the hall to clean up the mess, Abby's hand found her forehead as she sighed. "What a day."  
Pulling on her surgical mask, that she wore when she was in close contact with dust, she peered down at the mysterious bottle that had broken. One look sent her back to eighth grade. . .  
  
The soccer napkin covered in gray and white speckles. . .a bit of streamer under a mountain of salt. . .the stubby, melted friendship candle sitting stoutly on its side. . .  
  
These were mementos from her memory glass, that her friends from the Baby-Sitters Club had made for her for her Bat Mitzvah. Abby sat back to think about this for awhile, when suddenly, a thought sparked in her mind and she shot to her feet in a flash. She rummaged around somewhat frantically again, and her hands closed around cool porcelain. Bringing the object down to eye level, Abby confirmed her thoughts. It was the piggy bank. She idly remembered scrawling her dreams on a looseleaf piece of paper and putting it in this breakable piggy bank, and her friends doing the same.  
How fun it would be to see what they wrote! Abby smiled to herself, preparing to smash the bank on the floor.  
  
As she raised the piggy bank, another thought flashed through her mind. Abby tucked the piggy bank under her arm as she made way to the kitchen. Setting it on the table, she fished around the drawer in her kitchen cupboard. Triumphantly, she came up with a thick phone book.   
  
Flipping through the densely populated pages, she suddenly stopped.   
  
Shakily, she picked up the receiver of her phone, dialed, and held her breath.   



	2. Claudia

Chapter 2  
  
Her forehead pressed against the cool apartment door, Claudia Kishi struggled, laden with shopping bags, to turn the key and let herself inside. She nudged the door open with her foot and stepped inside, dropping the bags and moving past the crinkling mess of thrift shop treasures.  
  
She looked around her tiny, crowded apartment with satisfaction. Half-finished canvases and sculptures lay about, along with her favourite art pieces from her school days-a wind chime made of flattened forks, for example, hung just outside the large window overlooking the late summer Seattle bustle. Slightly captivated by the view, as she always was, Claudia moved closer to it. She nudged against a tiny end table that she had decoupaged with black-and-white pictures of classic movie stars, and the answering machine that lay on top of it wobbled and crashed to the floor.  
  
She let out a little yelp of surprise, sighed, and picked up the little compact machine. It blinked the number 5 furiously. Claudia clicked the 'play' button, and moved to the kitchen as it played.  
  
"Claudia? Are you there? . . .well, I guess you're not. . .this is urgent. . ."  
  
"When is it not?" Claudia muttered, somewhat bitterly, recognizing the voice of her peppy co-worker Carla. When it came to Artistica Monthly, it was always urgent. Claudia searched for her half-empty tin of Nestle Quik as the machine went on.  
  
"Marisa needs you to call her as soon as you hear this. Taj Menshi has taken the 10 o'clock flight out of Vienna, and he will be here tomorrow for the photo shoot, and not Wednesday. . ."  
  
Claudia moved back into the tiny living room, the chocolate milk, her comfort food, in hand, with a slightly wrinkled brow. "What does the Menshi photo shoot have to do with me?" she wondered aloud.  
  
". . .and I have a previous engagement, which means either you have to do the shoot or find someone else to do it. Thanks! 'Bye."  
  
Claudia scoffed sarcastically at the answering machine. "Of course. I'm sure I'm going to be able to find someone else. Why doesn't Marisa find someone?" At the thought of her stuffy, manipulative boss, Claudia kicked July's copy of Artistica Monthly, which lay conveniently at her feet, across the cluttered floor. Though she admired Taj Menshi's work, especially his landscapes, her experiences with past artists in this business were less than desirable. Most were snobby and unpleasant.   
  
Beeeeep. "Claudia? It's Janine."  
  
Claudia rushed to her answering machine, a bright smile plastered on her lips. Janine! It had been so long since she had heard her voice. E-mail was a spectacular thing, but Claudia could only afford it at work, and it was nothing like human contact. Studying abroad in Europe, Janine had been gone for a year or so.   
  
"I'm terribly sorry, but I can't come to Seattle next week . . .I know we were planning on it, but something has come up. Raul's little sister, Pilar, do you remember her? Well, she's having her 15th birthday, and it's a big thing in Spain. . her quinceanera. .I apologize again, and I will make it up to you, I promise. . I'll be down for Thanksgiving. . .love you! Goodbye."  
  
Claudia's heart dropped a little, into her stomach. She sat down in her overstuffed blue easy chair, visually disappointed. She remembered how she used to feel inadequate to her sister, because of her obvious strengths, and just recently, they had begun to appreciate each other. . .right before she had gone to Europe, actually, with her exchange-student boyfriend Raul.  
  
"Ugh." Claudia summed up her feelings in one word as she polished off her chocolate milk. Raul. A steady boyfriend. That was another thing Janine had that she didn't. . .  
  
Beeeeeep. "Claudia? Are you home yet? Claudia?" There was a pause, then a click. Claudia rolled her eyes at Carla's persistence.  
  
Claudia stood to size up an unfinished canvas that stood in the middle of the room. It was a landscape of the picturesque view out her window. The view, after all, was the main reason she paid so much for her apartment. Claudia thought that the view gave her inspiration. For this reason, also, her original Georgia O'Keefe sketch was hung near the window, her other source of inspiration. She smiled, in spite of the way things were going that evening, as she remembered how she had bought it by total mistake. She was proud of her strong will not to sell it, even when she was in dire need of money, as artists sometimes are. But that was before she got a job, though it was stressful and undesirable, at Artistica Monthly.  
  
The next message was a hang-up, and Claudia moved to the answering machine in order to turn it off. But it blinked the number '1' impatiently, and beeped in protest.  
  
"Claud?"  
  
A familiar voice filled the empty, silent apartment. Claudia's heart became fluttery, and all of the bad things were forgotten. Claud. No one had called her that since school . . .  
  
"It's. . .This is Abigail Stevenson. . Abby. ."  
  
A mental picture of a laughing, happy-go-lucky, headstrong girl with a thick mane of chocolate curls painted itself in her mind. Memories began to filter through the block she had put up, unconsciously, in her head.  
  
"This is actually, uh, kind of a funny story," the voice went on, rushed and somewhat nervous. Abby, nervous? Claudia thought, and inwardly smiled. That was something new. . .  
  
"I was looking for craft beads for Jill. . .that's my daughter. . ."  
  
Daughter? Claudia felt a pang of jealousy. ..then curiosity. She conjured up an image of a little girl with matching Abby-esque brown eyes and curls, and smiled.  
  
"And I found the memory glass from my Bat Mitzvah. . in eighth grade. . do you remember?"  
  
Claudia sat down as memories rushed to her like a roaring flood. In her state of happiness and confusion, tears began to prick at her eyelids. She had felt alone for so long. . but here was Abby, thinking of her . . .Abby, her friend from eighth grade. . .  
  
"And the piggy bank. . where we wrote our dreams. .I found that too. I also found one more thing. . I'm missing you guys. . .here is my address and phone number, if you are at all interested. . ."  
  
As Abby talked on, Claudia reached for her tie-dyed stationary and an emerald-green felt tip pen from the beaded coffee mug next to the phone, and she jotted down the information with vigor and urgency, oblivious to her notorious spelling mistakes.   



	3. Mallory

Chapter 3  
  
Pulling back cascades of silky, firey tresses, Mallory Pike fixed an elastic around her ponytail and took a swig of bottled water. With a sigh, her eyes, fringed with heavy, mascara-darkened lashes, took in the familiarity of the bustle around her. Photographers tinkered with the cameras, heavily made-up women sifted through racks and racks of miscellanous clothing, and Iris stood in the midst of it all, calling out orders.  
  
"Mallory!" she cried, and instantly Mallory set down her bottle and glanced over at the raven-haired manager. Iris smiled. "Great work, I'll see you tomorrow at eight?"  
  
A nod and a fake smile painted Mallory's lips, revealing rows of perfect white (thanks to those hideous braces she was stuck with in her teens.) As she gathered her various belongings--a notebook, cosmetic case, brush and mirror--and hastily shoved them into her carryon, she caught a glimpse of her face in one of the many mirrors that lined the studio. Then her smile transformed into a geniune one. In her mid twenties, she had blossomed into a beautiful young woman--finally, she thought to herself. Her geeky glasses were gone and replaced with royal blue contacts, her freckles now thought of as an asset rather than a setback, and her mop of impossible curls now silky and managable. That added with the curves that came with age made Mallory gorgeous--and she wasn't the only one that noticed.  
  
Her mind wandered back to that fateful day when she was 18. Fresh out of high school, she was worried about her future--her family, supporting her 8 brothers and sisters (Claire, Margo, Nicky, Byron, Adam, Jordan, Vanessa, and baby Caryn) was in no shape to help her through college. While flipping through Seventeen magazine, which lay admist her notebooks of writing one lazy afternoon, Mallory found a modeling ad that offered scholarships and immediately drove down to the office to apply. And the rest is history, she thought with a trace of bitterness, gazing around once more. A few years here, and still no scholarship. . .but at least it's steady pay. And what would I do if I wasn't here? I can't go to college and keep this job.  
  
Mallory slung the bag over her shoulder and headed to the door, but she heard a voice calling her. She turned to see a breathless Meisha running to catch up with her.  
  
"Mal! Want to go out for coffee later?" the young, curly-haired girl asked, then bit her lip. "Well, maybe not coffee, that would ruin my diet. . .how about an all-natural strawberry and banana smoothie? A small one. . ."  
  
Mallory tried her best to look sympathetic. "Gee, Meisha, I'd love to, but I've got plans." A date with 8 crazy siblings and, hopefully, a pint of good ol' Ben and Jerry's, she thought with an inward smile.  
  
A bright, understanding smile drew itself across Meisha's face. "That's okay! Maybe next time."  
  
With a parting smile, Mallory stepped out of the office door onto the streets of Stamford. A sigh escaped her rosen lips as she thought about how lonely she was. . .she couldn't remember what a real friend was like. All of the models at this agency were. . .fake, she thought with sadness. As if to punctuate her torment, the notebook slid out of her carryon and fell onto the sidewalk. Mallory's restless eyes wandered over a page of her own fiction writing, now forced to be kept secret, before snatching it up. How she missed to write. . .but her pitying thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her cell. "Hello?" she asked.  
  
"Hi honey, I'm just calling to relay a message," Mrs. Pike's voice came through the receiver.  
  
Mallory flagged down a taxi--her rundown, rusting hunk of metal she lovingly called a car was at the repair shop, yet again. "What is it?"  
  
"An old friend of yours," Mrs. Pike said, her smile audible over the phone. "Abby. . ."  
  
Mallory froze as a yellow cab pulled up in front of her. "Abby?" she repeated.  
  
"Yes, Abby Stevenson. She went on to say. . ." Mrs. Pike relayed the message as the cab pulled away from the curb.   
  
A few minutes into the ride, Mallory hung up the cell and quickly dialed another number. "Iris?" she asked after a few moments. "I may not be in tomorrow at eight. . ."  
  



	4. Dawn

Chapter 4  
  
Digging into a bowful of granola, Dawn Schafer closed the refrigerator with one Reebok-clad foot and, with her free hand, turned up the radio so that the upbeat music pulsed throughout the sunny kitchen. Hastily scarfing up her breakfast, Dawn removed the towel from around her neck and began pulling off her sneakers. She was swallowing the last bite as Mr. Schafer walked in, wearing a bright smile. "How great it is to have you home, Dawn," he greeted his daughter with a kiss on top of her head.  
  
Dawn smiled through the granola and jogged out of the room. "Where are you going? Aren't you staying for one of my famous omelettes?" Mr. Schafer called after her, habitually tidying up her sneakers and breakfast bowl. "My conference is this morning!" Dawn's voice shouted from upstairs. "That is why I'm here, Dad, don't forget. Do you know how great it would be to expand Schafer's Healthy Living out here?"  
  
Mr. Schafer smiled as he placed a pan on the stove. He was so proud of his daughter and her self-founded health resort. She had spent so much time away from home, in Virginia, where her resort was located. Who would have thought raging success would bring her home? It was the one thing that had kept her away for so long. . .  
  
She reappeared in the doorway, dressed in a tasteful cream blouse, sapphire blue skirt and blazer, her white-gold tresses loosely cascading to her elbows. "Love you, Dad," she said with a kiss on his cheek. "Give my love to Carol and Jeff. I'll be home," a quick glance at her watch, "around three."  
  
"Good luck, Sunshine," Mr. Schafer called after his daughter, a whirlwind of activity as she stepped out the door. How he missed her.  
  
Dawn hap-hazardly twisted her sunbleached locks into a pile on top of her head and secured it with an elastic and a few bobby pins she found in her purse. Reaching her silver Audi, she stepped out of her azure heels and hurriedly threw them into the vehicle, then slid into the driver's seat with a contented sigh. Starting up the car, she glanced into the review mirror, and smiled at the fact that her brisk morning run had created a healthy glow to kiss her cheeks. Then, along with her car, her mind shifted into gear--work mode.  
  
She wanted to expand Schafer's Healthy Living Resort to California more than anything. For one, she could see her family more often, and it just seemed right for the resort to be someplace as close to her heart as California. How she loved California. . . she flipped on the radio and sang along as she sped down the highway. The ringing of her cell phone interrupted her thoughts.  
  
"Hi!" she chirped brightly into the reciever.  
  
"Hi Dawn! It's me, Mary Anne."  
  
"Mary Anne!" Dawn greeted her stepsister. "How are you? How's Logan? And how's Larissa?"  
  
Mary Anne's soft laugh came through the receiver. "We're all great, really. . .what I'm really calling about is Abby."  
  
"Abby?" Dawn's brow furrowed as she turned off the highway.  
  
"Yes. . didn't you get her message?"  
  
"No, no, I didn't. . .do you mean Abigal Stevenson? Abby from eighth grade?"  
  
"Yes, Abby who disappeared after high school without a word. . ." Dawn could almost hear Mary Anne thinking on the other end of the line.  
  
"What did she say?" Dawn asked absently, searching for the address of the confrence building.  
  
"She wants us to all get together. . .you know, catch up on things," Mary Anne explained. "I wouldn't mind. . .yesterday, I went crazy thinking about what Kristy Thomas must be up to these days, it's kind of sad that we all drifted so far apart." Dawn could hear Mary Anne's sniffles, and her interest was once again piqued.  
  
"Knowing Kristy, probably something ambitious." Truthfully, Dawn's eyes were becoming a bit misty as memories came flooding back. Suddenly, she was filled with the longing to see her childhood friends, the realization that she still had something to hold on to a bit overwhelming. "When does she want to meet?"  
  
"As soon as possible. Abby's in Stamford, Dawn. It's surprising that she hasn't gone very far, considering she had so much spunk, so much potential. . ." Mary Anne trailed off, but then added, "I'm headed out to see her tomorrow."  
  
"Really? That soon?" Dawn asked, somewhat disappointed. "I'm in Cali now, on my way to a confrence to propose expanding Healthy Living to Palo City. I don't know when I'd be able to get to Stamford. I really haven't had much time to spend with my family. . ."  
  
"Dawn, that's great!" Mary Anne said with sincerity, then paused. "It's strange that Abby didn't call you. Or maybe she did, and you just didn't get the message."  
  
Dawn shrugged as she rechecked the number on the squat brick building she was coming up to. "I don't know, but listen Mary Anne, I've got to run. I"ll call you in the morning and we can work out the plans." The excitement of being reconnected with her past sent a shiver through her as she clicked off her phone, and for a brief moment she entertained herself with a guessing game of her friends' outcomes. Mentally shaking herself into work mode, Dawn stepped out of the car, into her heels, and, with an independant woman's poise, made her way to the confrence building.  
  
  



	5. Mary Anne, Part One

Chapter 5  
  
For a brief moment, Mary Anne Bruno thought back on how her marriage, the sacred union of the two lives that had entertwined since middle school, had begun. The crisp, clean air that was heavy with the intoxicating scent of spring-born lilacs. . .the sky, a vast azure canvas that spread out over the ceremony with not a blemish to speak of. . . the way that Logan's loving orbs told her that they were meant to be together, always, no matter what turbulent events had occured in their youth. If all that was true, she thought desperately, then why am I here?  
  
Crumpled up in a dark corner of the basement, her small body folded up in fetal position, short earthen curls obstructing the view of her tear-sheened eyes, Mary Anne wept silently. A deafening crash sent a jolt of fearful surprise through her body, and tremors of sobs racked her form once more. She could hear the splinters of glass scattering across the linoleum in the kitchen directly above. Logan's vicious, demonic shouts and yells had run together into an intellligable, boisterous drone in her head. She had tried to be so accomodating and perfect tonight, hoping to have a peaceful evening, making sure that the house was spotless when he came home, and that the meat loaf was in the oven. But little Larissa had been entertaining herself with her watercolour book and happened to spill the cup as she attempted to dip her paintbrush in it, translucent pastel colours running across the cream-coloured carpet. Mary Anne was on her knees with soda water and a washcloth as Logan walked in the door. The rest was a blur. . .except for the sickening thud of flesh against flesh. . .and the warm, dizzying surge of pain that rushed to the right side of her face.  
  
Logan had completely lost it. . .Mary Anne rushed to send Larissa over to the neighbors, the Valentas. She'd be safe over there, she knew. . .Mr. Valenta, or Ira, as he preferred to be called, was the most trustworthy man Mary Anne had ever met. Then she fled to the basement, not an uncommon occurence, and waited with a knot of fear and dread in the pit of her stomach for Logan to relieve his anger and to come downstairs to apologize.  
  
After a few moments of silence, Mary Anne shakily stood up, smoothing her hands over her worn jeans and polo shirt. She could already hear Logan's footsteps making their way down the basement stairs. And there he stood, his face flushed with fading anger, hair tousled, muscled form heaving with the attempt to catch his breath, and overall, looking completely wiped out. Wordlessly, he held his arms out.  
  
Mary Anne, feeling the familiar rush of relief and the overwhelming need to be loved, welcomingly slid into his embrace, her tear-stained cheeks buried against the roughness of his shirt. As his arms closed about her, she searched for that feeling of love that used to come so easily to her when she was held by him. . .but it didn't come. Involuntarily, she stiffened as he whispered words of regret and sorrow.  
  
"Mary Anne," he drawled in his tantalizing southern accent, "You know I never meant to hurt you. . .I've just been having a tough time at work, baby, and I just needed to vent. . .I promise to never hurt you or little Larissa again, Mary Anne. . ."  
  
The words that Mary Anne had heard so many times before slid right through her mind without leaving any sort of residue. Mechanically, Mary Anne nodded and stepped away from his embrace.  
  
"Now, you go get Larissa from the Valentas. . .I'm wiped out, Mary Anne, I think I'll just head on up to bed. Go on and eat without me." A smile, a brush of a kiss on the cheek, and he was gone.  
  
Tears of frustration built up and threatened to spill over once more. She was frustrated with herself, with her life, with how this must be affecting her child. Numbly, she threw on her charcoal peacoat and slipped on her loafers, and stepped outside. The crisp evening air bit at her face, stinging from the salty tears. She inwardly chided herself for not washing her face or drying it before going over to the Valentas . . the last thing she wanted was for anyone to notice that she was upset. .. especially not Mr. Valenta. . .  
  
As she rang the doorbell, she hurriedly swiped at her face with her sleeve. She winced as she ran her sleeve over her eye, the numbness leaving, dull pain filling it's void. Mary Anne suddenly remembered that Logan had hit her. . the numbness and anguish had chased away the pain. Anxiousness was growing inside of her. . .she couldn't let the Valentas see her injury!  
  
Quickly, she spun around to head back to her house when the door opened. "Mary Anne!" he called with concern. "Where are you going?"  
  
Mary Anne turned to face Ira Valenta, a man in his early thirties, holding the door open. His muscular form was showcased in black mesh running shorts and a loose-fitting, ratty turquiose t-shirt--it was obvious that he, an avid runner, had just been out for a jog. A thin sheen of sweat graced his body, his gorgeous, silken raven hair falling in short, limp curls about his young, attractive face--yet his velvet brown eyes were filled with concern.  
  
Mary Anne shook her head, trying to clear her slight attraction mixed with the fog of pain and confusion that she felt. "I'm sorry, Ira. . .I rang the doorbell and no one answered, so I figured you weren't home. . ." she lied, feeling a bit faint.  
  
The purple bruise above Mary Anne's eye registered in Ira's head. "Mary Anne," he said with fatherly urgency, "would you like to come in and talk? I've got coffee on. . ."  
  
The last thing Mary Anne wanted to do was talk. The horror that has been my life might just slip out, she thought, and shook her head gently, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed. "No, I'd just like to. . collect my child."  
  
With that remark, Larissa, a jumble of chestnut curls and energy, ran up behind Ira and wrapped her arms around her mother. "Mommy!" she squealed, the magic of being 7 erasing any thoughts about her mother's injury clean away.  
  
Mary Anne knelt down and held her daughter for a prolonged amount of time. Ira watched with growing concern etched on his face and Larissa began to squirm. "Larissa," he finally said, "why don't you run along back in the den with Alexandriah. . .she and Alessa are watching Pocahontas. I need to talk to your mother. . ."  
  
Larissa, glad to get out of the drawn-out embrace, ran back into the house. Ira watched as Mary Anne stood with an annoyed look. "Ira, I thought I told you. . ."  
  
"Mary Anne, this has been going on for long enough. You have got to talk to me," he said urgently.  
  
A dazed look washed over Mary Anne. She looked up at Ira through a fog.  
  
"Oh, Ira. . ." she began, then slumped forward, falling into his arms, in a dead faint. 


	6. Mary Anne, Part Two

Chapter 6  
  
Folds of blankets wrapped about her. . .her aching head lay gently upon a pillow. . .a cold, jarring washcloth pressed upon her flushed cheeks and forehead. . .Mary Anne's eyes fluttered open to see Ira's face, eyes filled with tenderness and worry. In her daze of confusion and pain, she studied the strong line of his jaw. . .the yeilding shape of his lips. . .and how tantalizingly close his face was to hers. . .  
  
In one movement, the inviting moment was gone. Ira pulled back and questioned gently, "Mary Anne, are you awake?"  
  
Mary Anne groaned and nodded. "Did I faint?"  
  
Ira confirmed her notion with a movement of his head, continuing to press the washcloth to her face. "Mary Anne," he pressed on, "you have got to tell me what's been going on."  
  
She did not want to talk about it. Instead, she struggled to sit up, the fear of Logan waiting for her to return, the very real possibility of a reoccurence of what happened tonight fueling the overwhelming need to get Larissa and herself home. "Ira, I really must be going. . ."  
  
Ira's face was stony. "No, Mary Anne," he told her in a final tone. "You aren't going anywhere until you tell me why Larissa is spending so much time here after Logan gets home from work. I want you to tell me why you were so upset tonight. And most of all, Mary Anne, I want you to tell me why you have that bruise on the side of your face."  
  
Mary Anne's guard was falling with each soft-spoken word that came from Ira's lips, and the tears that so easily came to her were returning. As she came to the verge of sobbing, Ira held his arms out and she fell into them with vicious yearning, sobs escaping her lips, ragged breaths being drawn in, feeling so safe in the tender embrace that Ira offered, so different from Logan's, tired of being scared and vulnerable. Ira let her cry, let her tears stain his shirt as he rocked her gently. When he spoke, it was with quiet frustration. "So many times, Mary Anne, I've tried to get you to tell me what's going on. I want to know, I want to protect you, Mary Anne, I never want you to be hurt again. . ."  
  
Her reply was muffled from being buried into his strong shoulder as she sobbed. "How do you do it?" she asked miserably.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Be a single father," she answered, tears starting anew. "How can you raise two daughters alone, with no one to satisfy that undying need to be loved and held and be told that you are beautiful. . .I could never do it. . I need Logan," she finished lamely, revolted and disgusted beyond bearing that she had become dependant on her abusive husband.  
  
Ira's arms instinctively tightened. "Mary Anne, you do not need Logan! You do not deserve to be his personal punching bag. He has no right to hit you or make you feel horrible. . .I know how hard it is to get out of a bad marriage, Mary Anne. . .but there are other alternatives. . ."  
  
A small, timid voice answered him. "But I'm so scared. . ."  
  
Ira's form was racked with the need to protect her. "Mary Anne, I will never, ever let Logan hurt you, or Larissa, ever again. Do you understand? I am going to protect you. . ."  
  
Mary Anne pulled away, her gleaming eyes staring deep into Ira's, searching. She wanted to believe that Ira would protect her. . .she wanted his arms to stay around her forever. . .  
  
Ira couldn't help himself. She looked so lovely, her hair tousled, face flushed, setting off her gorgeous eyes. . and then his raging instinct to protect her and keep her from harm ravaged through him, and he leaned forward to take her parted lips with his. Mary Anne was tentative at first, but in the kiss she felt a yearning that burned deep within him, a yearning to love. . .and she wanted to be loved, to take all he had to give. She lost herself in the most delicious, soul-satisfying kiss that had ever touched her. . .and as they parted, she remained light-headed and faint. He just looked into her eyes, searching her soul, for a few more delectable moments. .. until the reality of what she had just done set in.  
  
She shot off of the bed like a shot. "What am I DOING?" she asked herself hysterically. "I'm. . .I'm a married woman! You are a father! We shouldn't be doing this!" The finality of her tone kept Ira silent for awhile. Then Mary Anne started out the door. "I've got to go home. . ."  
  
"Mary Anne, if you think I am going to let you go back to that. . demon's house, you have another thought coming!" Ira told her angrily. "I will not let you offer yourself to that. . .that son of a bitch!"  
  
"He's my husband!" Mary Anne hissed.  
  
"He doesn't love you," Ira told her lamely.  
  
They stared at eachother, a silent standoff, when the doorbell rang. 


	7. Mary Anne, Part Three

Chapter 7  
  
"That has got to be Logan," Mary Anne confirmed, almost hysterically. "Oh, what am I going to do?"  
  
"I'll handle this," Ira said in a resolute tone.  
  
He self-assuredly led the way to the door, Mary Anne trailing behind him, wiping her face free of tell-tale tears. Ira swung open the door to reveal a stony-faced Logan.  
  
"Mary Anne," he hissed, oblivious to Ira. "You've been gone for two hours."  
  
Mary Anne transformed into the timid wife that she played the part of. "I. . I'm sorry," she stammered. "I thought you. . you had went to bed."  
  
Ira fixed Logan with a glare. "I invited her in for coffee. Is that alright with you?"  
  
Completely ignoring Ira, Logan went on, "I've been up waiting for you to come home. I wanted to make sure you were safe."  
  
I'm never safe, Mary Anne thought inwardly. "I'm sorry. . .as he said, Ira offered me some coffee, and we talked as. . ." her eyes fell on a stack of homework papers that lay on the end table just inside the door, "as he graded papers."  
  
Logan icily looked Ira up and down as if he had never seen him before. "That's right. . you're a social studies teacher?"  
  
Ira just continued to stare at him.  
  
"Well, Mary Anne, get Larissa and let's go," Logan ordered.  
  
"She's not going anywhere," Ira stated, still watching Logan.  
  
"Excuse me?" Logan scoffed, stepping closer to Ira. Though both were built and obviously strong, Logan had the upper hand for the fact that he was a few inches taller.  
  
The last thing Mary Anne wanted was a fight, so she called for Larissa, whom had just finished watching the movie and was all giggles and smiles. "Are we going home, Mommy?" she asked innocently. Mary Anne nodded, trying to hide her fear, as she took Larissa, whom was calling goodbyes to her playmates, by the hand and stepped outside the door. Logan and Ira were continuing to stare eachother down, when Logan broke the eye contact and roughly took Mary Anne by the elbow. "Let's go," he growled.  
  
Mary Anne felt her fear escalate, for Logan very rarely showcased his anger in public, or in front of other people. "Thank--Thank you," Mary Anne called to Ira, her voice catching as he just continued to stare after them as they retreated to their home. He didn't close the door until well after Logan, Mary Anne and Larissa had disappeared into the confines of their house.  
  
****  
  
The sunlight streamed in through the windows, creating honey-gold patterns across the sky-blue sheets on Mary Anne's bed. The morning beckoned her eyes to flutter open. For a moment, she felt apprehensive, but calmed down when she saw that Logan's side of the bed was empty. He must have left for work.  
  
Slowly sitting up on the side of her bed, she ran a hand through her short chocolate locks--the same hairstyle she had kept since high school. Her mind was a turmoil of what was right, and what was wrong. . .wanting to leave, and wanting to stay. . .her eyes roamed the room, a cheerful motif of sunshine yellow and calm navy blue, and she remembered how excited she was to be having her own house, living with Logan, decorating the house together . . what had happened? She asked herself with subdued sadness. Suddenly, she felt very heavy and bland. . .she didn't want to do a thing, not get up and get Larissa ready for school, or take a shower, or eat breakfast. She just wanted to lay in bed with the covers over her head forever. . .  
  
Her eyes fell on the answering machine that lay on the nighttable beside the bed. The number 2 blinked furiously, impatiently. Suddenly filled with the need to hear another human voice, Mary Anne leaned forward and pressed the play button.  
  
"Hi, Mary Anne, it's your dad," a voice came through the speaker. Mary Anne found herself smiling at her loving father's voice. They had certainly been through their hard times, but she felt that their relationship had blossomed into a great one. "Just calling to check in. How are you all, and when is little Larissa coming to visit me? Call me later. I'll be here."  
  
Mary Anne wished with all of her heart she could tell her father that Logan was just great, we were fine, one big, happy family. But she knew that was a lie.  
  
The answering machine clicked, and a warm, uncertain voice filled her ears. "Hi, Mary Anne? It's Abby. . .Abby Stevenson. Do you remember me?"  
  
With that simple sentence, Mary Anne was whisked back to a time where everything in her life was innocent and beautiful. A time where she spent her lazy afternoons with her best friends in the world. . .what had ever happened to them?  
  
"I am missing you all," Abby went on to say. "I've called everyone in the club, asking them to oblige in a get-together as soon as possible. . .here is my address and phone number, if you are interested. . ."  
  
Mary Anne entertained herself for a bit, wondering how her friends had progressed in life. . .Mallory had to be an author, she decided, with all of her talent and ambition. . .Claudia, an artist. Abby herself. . .a coach maybe? She certainly had a love of sports. . .  
  
She could hear footsteps making their way to her bedroom door, which erased her mind of any remincisent thoughts. At first, she thought that it was Larissa, wanting her hair brushed for school. But it was not her little face that poked through the bedroom door. . but the face of Ira Valenta.  
  
Startled, Mary Anne pulled the covers up around her chin and glanced at the clock, making a note that Larissa had already left for school--Logan had probably got her ready--she had overslept.  
  
Ira was walking closer to Mary Anne, his eyes dark and tremulous. "What are you doing here?" Mary Anne asked in a choked whisper, secretly excited that Ira was here. . .and by the memory of the kiss that they had shared. "If Logan knew. . ."  
  
"I can't stop thinking about you, Mary Anne," he explained in a hushed tone. "That kiss. . ."  
  
Mary Anne's breathing escalated as he stepped closer to her. "We shouldn't be doing this. . ." she said, her voice betraying her words. She longed for another kiss. "And what gives you the right to come barging in on me? I could have been. . " she blushed, ". .not. .decent."  
  
Ira took no notice of her words and stood over her, his face aching inches away from hers. Mary Anne's heart was beating hard, fluttering in her chest. . .and in an explosion of light and colour, their lips met, in a union of hunger and urgency, restless hands and longing to be whole. He pulled away from her, whispering against her soft skin, "Come away with me, Mary Anne. . . I'll protect you. . "  
  
Mary Anne froze with realization of what he was saying, and she pushed him away. "I. .I can't. .what about Larissa?"  
  
"You are putting her in greater danger if you stay here with him!" he retorted.  
  
The flame of passion that they had felt was doused no sooner than it had ignited. "I can't, why can't you understand?" Mary Anne said with frustration.  
  
"You don't understand. You want to leave. But you are too weak!" Ira told her. "You want to leave. . .I can help you, protect you. . "  
  
"I don't even know you!" Mary Anne cried.  
  
There was a silence between the two that Mary Anne could hardly bear. "I wish I could say that I understand you," Ira said with an air of finality, before turning on his heel and leaving her in a heap on her bed, once again, alone.  
  
She sat their for longer than she realized, thinking, fighting back tears. Again her eyes rested on the answering machine, at the blinking number two. She had to get out of here, to be reconnected with innocence. .she had to go see Abby.  
  



End file.
